


Impression

by hapakitsune



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Art, Horses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 23:37:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3268547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapakitsune/pseuds/hapakitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the art classes in all the towns in all the world, Carey walked into PK's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impression

**Author's Note:**

> This story owes a great debt to the film Weekend and the short story "Travis, B." by Maile Meloy, both of which heavily influenced the writing of this. As always, many thanks to the people who tolerated me rambling at them about this, bropunzling, rabbits, and duckgirlie (my wonderful beta reader) among them. 
> 
> I also listened a lot to Damien Rice's song "Colour me in" while working on this so you should listen to that.

Carey’s breath clouded the air as he made small talk with the stable owner, his hands tucked firmly into the pockets of his down vest. He hated this part, the obligatory conversation about how his boss’s stock was coming along, how Fleetfoot and Ontario Cherry were doing, how Carey had performed at his last rodeo. At least Matti hated it as much as he did, because she cut the chat after asking about the drive and then, when he said it was fine, clapped her hands and told him to open the trailer. 

Carey nodded and circled around to the back. He opened the padlock, lowered the door to serve as a ramp, and slipped inside, whickering softly so Blossom wouldn’t startle. He ran a soothing hand over her ruddy flank, whispering to her as he rubbed her neck and untied her so she could back on out of the trailer. She was a pretty thing, an Arabian roan Carey had helped birth the previous year, and he had spent much of the time he wasn’t on the road with her. Gio said Carey had a gift with animals, horses in particular, and this particular one was special. Matti was to train her for racing now that the early stages were done, and after that she’d be sold to some rich client who would visit her maybe once a month, if she were lucky. 

Times like this, Carey wished he had the money to buy Blossom from Gio and take her home with him. She was tired from the drive – he was too – and she had spent miles and miles of travel cooped up in his trailer while he at least had music to keep him occupied. And now he was supposed to leave her to someone who didn’t know her like he did. 

“She’s a beautiful creature,” Matti said appraisingly. She reached out to examine Blossom’s eyes and teeth. “Good health. Tell Gio he’s done an excellent job, as usual. As have you. Are you sure I can’t convince you to come work with me?”

Carey said no, as always, and went with her to settle Blossom into her new home. In the stable, Matti wired the rest of Gio’s payment and gave Carey a fifty dollar bill. He tried to protest, as usual, but she ignored him and asked him about Blossom’s eating habits. Then, when she was finished taking notes on her phone and said she’d call if she had any other questions, she left Carey alone with Blossom to say his goodbyes.

Blossom huffed out a breath when Carey slipped into her stall, scratching her neck the way she liked. Carey rested his cheek against hers and sighed. 

“You’ll like it here,” he told her. “Matti is a good trainer, and you’ll have plenty of room to run around.” 

Blossom stamped her foot in response. Sometimes Carey half-expected her to speak back, telling him not to be such a goddamn baby. That it was his job to chauffeur her, not to get all sappy at the end of the ride. He kissed her behind the ear, feeling unexpectedly sentimental, and slid out of the stable, heading to his truck to drive back into town, more than an hour away even without traffic. 

 

Carey walked with a slight limp. It was the kind of thing people only noticed if they were looking closely. He told everyone it was from a rodeo accident. Nights like this, he found himself rubbing at his left leg, running his fingers along his calf as though he’d be able to feel the places the bone had been fitted back together. He considered hitting one of the town’s few bars; but he didn’t much like drinking alone and as long as the drive had been getting here, he knew it would be far worse getting back with a hangover. 

He was driving towards the town diner when he passed by the rec center. Most times when he passed through here before, it had been quiet and dark, but this time, lights were shining from the windows. He parked in the lot, jumped down from his seat, and watched a dark figure cross the parking lot from one of the other cars. They opened up the door, and for a moment the light from inside illuminated the face of a young man about his age, maybe a bit younger, with close-cropped black hair and dark skin. He was smiling at something inside. 

The door closed abruptly, its light vanishing in a slam of metal. Carey blinked spots from his eyes and found himself moving towards the rec center without quite realizing it. He shook out his sleeve to cover his hand so he wouldn’t freeze his fingers and pulled the door toward him. He stepped into the bright light of the rec center. Inside there was a small lobby with coffee and snacks, and past that in the main room there were easels arranged around a table with what looked like a toy castle. 

“Are you here for the art class?” someone asked from behind him. He turned to see a small woman, middle-aged, with dark hair just starting to go gray. She smiled at him and held out a brown hand. “I’m Sara,” she said. “No h. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Carey,” he said, shaking her hand. 

“Nice to meet you, Carey,” Sara said. She held a Styrofoam cup in her other hand, the string and tag of a tea bag dangling from the rim. “Do you live out on one of the farms around here?”

“I’m just passing through,” Carey said. 

“So you’re not here for the art class?” she asked. Behind her, a tall, rail thin redheaded girl bent over a box of donuts, looking through them discerningly. 

“Oh,” Carey said. “I’m not signed up.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “I don’t think PK will mind.”

“Maybe I’ll sit in,” Carey said. He poured himself a cup of coffee, warming his hands along the side. It was surprisingly good for rec center coffee. He sipped at it carefully, looking around from Sara to the tall teenager to what looked like a married white couple deep in conversation in the corner. There was another teenager, a light-skinned boy with dark hair twisted up in a bun and a paint-splattered plaid shirt, and there was the young man Carey had seen outside. He was still smiling, this time at something the boy with the bun was saying. He had a transformative smile, vivid and utterly unfeigned. Carey, who knew from family photos that his smiles more often than not seemed pained rather than genuine, was envious. He watched over the rim of his coffee cup, then nearly choked when the young man looked at him. 

He tried to gulp his coffee hastily, feeling as though he should probably make his excuses and leave, but as he reached the bottom of his cup, the young man came over to him and said, “Hey.”

“Hi,” Carey said, resigned to making up a flimsy excuse for his staring. 

The young man smiled wider. “You’re not on the list,” he said. “Are you a walk-in?”

“I – no,” Carey said. “I’m passing through. Sara said something about an art class just now?”

“Yeah, community art class,” the young man said. He held out his hand. “I’m PK. I’m teaching.”

Carey eyed PK’s hand for a moment, then shook it. “I’m Carey.”

“Well, Carey,” PK said, “you’re welcome to join us if you want.”

“I can’t draw,” Carey said. 

“That’s why it’s art _class_ ,” PK said, grinning still wider. “Come on in, bud. I’ll set you up with an easel.”

Carey trailed after him and watched as PK sets up another easel bench. The other students wandered in after them, taking their seats while chatting companionably. Carey surveyed them, mildly envious. He was rarely at home, and when he was, he was usually taking advantage of his time there to catch up on sleep and visit his family, not to meet his neighbors or go to community art classes. In the past year, he wagered he had spent more time in his truck than in his bed. Most of the time this didn’t bother him. 

“You can have a seat,” PK said, patting the bench and smiling at Carey. “Don’t be shy.”

Carey scowled at him, but straddled the bench and scooted up so he could comfortably sketch on the pad of newsprint paper PK had supplied. PK nodded and went to stand in the center of the circle. He gestured at the toy castle. 

“Today we’re practicing perspective,” he said. “I have borrowed my niece’s Polly Pocket castle for the exercise. I want you to pay particular attention to the way shadows create a sense of depth in your drawings. Go ahead and make it as fanciful as you want, but the castle has to be in it.”

Carey glanced around furtively and saw that his new classmates had already begun sketching. He hurriedly bent over the pad and picked up one of the supplied pencils. With a last glance at PK, who was talking to Sara, Carey began to draw. 

Carey hadn’t been lying to PK; he really was a terrible artist. The castle should have been easy, as it was primarily composed of straight lines, but he could tell he was getting the proportions all wrong. The towers looked fat and squashed, the railings clumsy and wobbly. He felt like a first grader with his overly blocky and simplistic art, and he was tempted to rip it from the pad and walk out. He was seriously considering it when he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“Sorry,” PK said when Carey startled and nearly ripped a hole in his paper with his pencil. “That’s looking pretty good!”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Carey said flatly. “We both know this is awful.”

“Hey, don’t be so down on yourself.” PK knelt at Carey’s side and reached out towards the paper. “You see detail well. You got the shape of the windows perfectly.”

Carey looked and had to admit that he had done a decent job capturing the tapered arch, but privately he suspected that was due to dumb luck more than anything. “I just don’t think I know what I’m doing.”

“Here,” said PK, gently lifting Carey’s hand back to the paper. “Try shading the back towers. Not too much, but enough that it looks farther away.”

Carey did as he was told, trying not to pay attention to PK’s breath against his arm. He’s startled to see that his drawing looks substantially better once he’s added shadows. His sketch, formerly flat and lifeless, seemed to gain depth before his eyes. He sat back and said, “Huh.”

“Cool, right?” PK bumped his shoulders against Carey’s arm. “Keep at it.”

Carey, newly invigorated, resumed sketching. PK stood behind him for a few moments more, humming encouragingly, before moving on to the next student. Carey looked at him out of the corner of his eye, hand slowing as he watched PK bend in close to the young man with the bun. PK didn’t look like Carey’s mental image of an artist. Carey imagined them as thin, waifish people with hand-knit sweaters and tight jeans, not strong, sturdy men he would favorably describe as built like a brick shithouse. 

He realized he was staring at the flex of PK’s bicep and reapplied himself to his drawing, setting to shading the way PK had shown him. Drawing was oddly settling, a bit like driving at night with the long empty road stretching out endlessly before him. He had found that the best, most welcome relief from home. 

“Hey,” PK said, touching Carey’s shoulder. “Hey, Carey, class is over.”

Carey blinked and looked up from his drawing which, while not particularly accurate or even aesthetically pleasing in any way, was at least recognizable as a castle. The rest of the class were gathering their belongings and leaving, chatting quietly amongst themselves. Sara waved at Carey before she left, and Carey nodded back before turning his gaze to PK. 

“Thank you for letting me –” Carey waved his hand vaguely around the room. “It was nice.”

“No problem,” PK said, turning to gather up the toy castle. “You said you’re passing through? What did you mean by that?”

“I drive a horse transport,” Carey said. PK glanced at him over his shoulder, eyebrows raised curiously, so Carey explained about Blossom and Matti and how he had seen the light from the rec center as he passed and found himself drawn to it. 

“Maybe it was fate,” PK said, smiling, and Carey’s face heated. He looked away and got up to help move the furniture back to the sides of the room. PK told him to leave the food in the lobby – “The maintenance staff will take the leftovers” – and they left the rec center together. Snow was falling dreamily, floating down as light as feathers. PK laughed when he saw it and turned his face up to the sky. 

“The weather report said clear skies tonight,” Carey said, annoyed. He would have to find somewhere to sleep tonight, unless he wanted to run the heat in the truck all night. 

“That must be your truck,” PK said, pointing and grinning. Carey rolled his eyes but nodded. “Wow. How many hours a day do you spend in that thing?”

“Most of them,” Carey said dryly. 

“Shit. I’d go crazy if that were me.” PK shook the snow from his coat and asked, “You want to get a drink? Or do you have to be up early tomorrow?”

“I can get a drink,” Carey said. 

“I’ll drive so you don’t have to get back in that thing,” PK said. He grinned at Carey’s eyeroll and gestured for Carey to follow him. PK had a sensible blue sedan, refreshingly uncluttered inside. Carey has to shove the passenger seat back to accommodate his legs, and PK, laughing, says that the last person to sit there had been his niece. 

“But don’t tell her mom,” PK said. “She’s still supposed to sit in the back.”

The bar PK took him to was small and two blocks off the main drag of town. Carey followed PK inside, ducking under the low doorway into the darkened room. It was a small bar, dimly lit as most bars were, with a long bar to the right and booths along the left and back walls. PK was greeting people with that wide smile, shaking hands and waving hello to those he couldn’t reach. Carey trailed after him, feeling out of place, but no one gave him a second glance. PK led the way to a corner booth, waving over one of the waitresses as they sat down. 

“Hey Kasey,” he said. “What’s on tap today?”

Kasey rattled off a list of beers that made Carey’s head spin. When PK glanced over at him and saw Carey’s presumably nonplussed expression, he laughed and said, “Give us two of the IPAs for right now.”

“Done and done,” Kasey said. She patted PK on the cheek fondly and said something in his ear that made PK laugh and glance at Carey. Carey shifted awkwardly and rubbed his hands against his jeans, turning his gaze to the television behind the bar, which was showing the Montreal-Ottawa game. Montreal was up by one, but Ottawa was on the power play and were setting up to score. 

PK followed his look. “Who are you rooting for?”

“I grew up an Oilers fan, but I like the Habs,” Carey said. “You?”

“Habs all the way. Dad loved them. My brother is in the Bruins system, broke Dad’s heart,” PK said with a laugh. Kasey returned with their beers, and PK took them from her with murmured thanks and drank a long gulp of his before asking, “Do you play?”

“Used to,” Carey said. “Up until I was about fifteen.”

“Me too,” PK said. “Let me guess. You were a...winger.”

“Goalie,” Carey said, snorting. “Why? I look like a forward?”

“You look like you score a lot, yeah,” PK said.

Carey choked on his beer. When he stopped coughing, PK was watching him, careful, like he was waiting for something. Carey swallowed and said, “Not that much, honestly.”

PK laughed, disbelieving. “Sure,” he said. “With that face?”

“I’m traveling a lot,” Carey said. “Most people don’t – I’m not that interested in casual, not anymore.”

PK shrugged. “I can be as serious as you want.”

Carey eyed him and the half-full glass of beer in his hand. “Only if you’re sober enough to drive.”

“We’ll wait until the game ends,” PK said. Under the table, he nudged his foot against Carey’s ankle. “And if you’re still interested, I am too.”

Carey swallowed a long draught of beer to steady himself. He wasn’t used to people being this forward with him. Usually there was the awkward dance of trying to determine if the other man was amenable to sex, then there was the sly suggestions of home or a hotel. Most of them, it seemed, just wanted to tell their friends they’d slept with the guy passing through, the one with the cowboy boots and the heavy belt. Used to be he liked that, fed off it, even, back when the nomadic life was still new and romantic. He didn’t think that was why PK was asking, though.

“What position did you play?” Carey asked, trying to change the subject. Judging from PK’s look, PK knew exactly what he was doing. 

“Defense,” PK said. “Goalie’s best friend, right? I was a forward as a kid, but my dad thought, hey, people need defensemen.”

“Were you any good?”

“Fuck you, I was awesome!” PK said. “Probably could have made the NHL if I’d stuck to it.”

Carey laughed. “Everyone says that.”

“I have good stock,” PK said, tapping his chest. “My brother went first round. Jordan’s even better, even if people don’t realize it yet.”

“So why’d you quit?” Carey asked. 

“Money,” PK said simply. “Malcolm’s a goalie like you, and with three boys in hockey, it was a lot to take on after they’d already put my sisters through school. My parents told me they were fine, but I overheard them talking about it a lot when I was growing up. So I got a job on the weekends and started going to art classes in my spare time, and eventually – I loved art more. And I still play plenty of pickup with my friends.”

“And now you’re an artist?” 

“Full time,” PK said proudly. “I like teaching, though, and it’s good to have some extra cash when I’m between shows. So what about you?” PK tapped Carey’s knuckles lightly. “Why’d you stop playing?”

“My dad died,” Carey said. 

PK’s expression fell. “Shit,” he said. He squeezed Carey’s hand, rubbing his thumb along Carey’s index finger. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have –”

“It isn’t like you knew.” Carey pulled his hand away and picked up his beer again. To his relief, PK dropped the subject and asked him instead about Blossom and the trip from BC. When he found out Carey did rodeo, too, he had a half-dozen questions about that, if Carey could lasso, what events he did, if he had won any prizes. Carey tried to steer the subject away from himself and found that asking PK about his family was the best course. PK, it seemed, could talk about his brothers and sisters for hours without ever getting tired. He was the middle of five, a strange concept for Carey who had grown up used to being the eldest of only two. It had always been just him and his sister, especially after their father had died. 

By the third period of the game, PK was doodling his family on a napkin for Carey, drawing his brothers in their gear and his sisters playing basketball. Carey liked watching PK’s hands, strong as they looked, draw such delicate lines, each one precise and deliberate. He had talent, too; though he was drawing his family casually, Carey could tell the difference between each small figure. 

“—and so that was when she stole the puck from Jordan and went five-hole on Malcolm,” PK said, laughing and tapping the sketch of his oldest sister. “Jordan stopped talking shit about their hockey after that. Just because they didn’t play through the system like we did doesn’t mean they never picked anything up.”

“Sounds fun,” Carey said. “My sister only played up until I hit a puck into her face.”

PK snorted and opened his mouth to say something, but his gaze slipped to the television. “Shit,” he said. “Look at Karlsson go!”

Karlsson was streaking up the ice, puck on his stick. Carey tensed, and for a moment he could imagine it, wearing the Habs logo and crouching down in net, his hand up and his stick ready. Through his mask he could see Karlsson coming at him, winding back for a shot –

“Aw, fuck,” PK said feelingly. On screen, Karlsson was celebrating his goal, which put Ottawa one up on Montreal. “They better tie it up.”

But there were only three minutes left in the game, and though Montreal spent most of it in Ottawa’s zone, they didn’t manage to tie it up. Carey swore under his breath and drank the last of his beer. PK had finished his almost an hour before and was watching him closely. 

“Okay,” Carey said. “Let’s go.”

“You’re so romantic,” PK said, grinning. “I’m gonna pay. Meet you out at the car?”

The ride to PK’s house took only a few minutes, but it reminded Carey of all the reasons he didn’t do this anymore. The awkward period between the bar and the bed when he had the chance to reevaluate his choice; the prospect of being asked about the scar on his thigh; the dread of the morning after when he would have to walk back to his truck or wake his bed partner to get a ride. He was on the verge of asking PK to just take him back to the rec center so he could reclaim his truck when PK said, “I love this song!” and turned up the volume on his radio. Carey looked over at him, at his wide smile and his hands drumming on the steering wheel and felt the same inexplicable pull he’d felt in the parking lot of the rec center: he wanted to know PK. 

By the time the song had ended, they were parking in PK’s garage, and PK was leading Carey inside, offering to give him the five cent tour. “Kitchen’s that way,” he said, waving his left hand vaguely, “dining room is past that, this is the den, these are the stairs –” Here he took Carey’s hand. “Anything you need?”

“No,” Carey said, and he cut to the chase by kissing PK. PK let out a muffled noise of surprise, but responded enthusiastically, scrabbling at the slick fabric of Carey’s vest with his spare hand before backing up the stairs. 

PK’s bedroom was decorated haphazardly with photos and paintings, some of his family, others of people and places Carey didn’t recognized. He had hardly a moment to take it in before PK was urging him to take off his jacket and vest and shirt, oh, and pants, too. Carey laughed despite himself at PK’s demanding tone, but did as he was told. 

“Happy?” Carey asked once he was naked. PK looked him up and down, clearly evaluating, and smiled. 

“Thrilled. Now come here so I can blow you.” PK sat on the bed and shucked his jacket and shirt before beckoning to Carey. “You have one nice-looking cock. And I know what I’m talking about.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’m an artist, I’ve seen a lot of dicks.” PK glanced toward his bedside table. “Do I need a condom?”

Carey shook his head. “Unless you want one.”

“Rather not,” PK said. “I’m good to go too, got a report to prove it, but if you want it for you –”

“I thought you wanted to blow me,” Carey said. 

“Fine, come here, then,” PK said, gesturing impatiently. 

Carey went, shivering when PK put his hands on his thighs, not seeming to notice the scars, and leaned in to lick around the head of his cock. PK was sure and steady, and he didn’t seem to mind when Carey put his hands on his head, rubbing his fingers in slow circles behind PK’s ears. Carey came easily, which surprised him. It had been a while, of course, but PK worked him to the edge easily, like it was nothing. Carey warned PK before he came, and PK pulled off so he could stroke him through it. 

“Fuck,” Carey said, knees buckling. PK caught him by the hips and kissed his stomach as Carey braced himself on PK’s shoulders. His come striped PK’s neck and chest, but PK hardly seemed to notice, focused as he was on nipping at Carey’s stomach. Carey swallowed hard and stroked his hand over the back of PK’s head, smiling when PK looked up at him. 

“Mind if I return the favor?” Carey asked. 

“That was not a favor, my friend.” PK scooted back on the bed and unbuttoned his jeans. “And you’d better.”

PK was gorgeous, obviously strong and capable, and Carey took his time dragging his teeth and lips along the inside of his powerful thighs, the back of his knees, across the jut of PK’s hip until PK squeezed his hand so tight that Carey took pity on him. It had been a while since Carey had been intimate with anyone’s dick but his own, and his leg was aching from how it was folded up beneath him, but he was recalling how he liked this – not the act itself, really, the feeling of PK tensing beneath him, the restless movement of PK’s hands across his hair, neck, jaw. He was almost disappointed when PK pulled him off and dragged him up for a kiss as he came, his fingers digging into Carey’s shoulder so hard he wondered if he would bruise. He hoped he would. 

They kissed lazily, PK playfully biting at Carey’s bottom lip until Carey smiled despite himself. He couldn’t stop touching PK, exploring his arms, back, ass. PK growled at that last and bit Carey’s shoulder. That led to them rutting against each other, not with any real urgency, but the friction was enough to quench the remnants of Carey’s arousal.

When they had exhausted themselves and taken their turns in the washroom, Carey lay down, exhaustion from the long day suddenly making itself known. PK settled in beside him and said, “Let me know if you need the light off.”

“I sleep in the cab of my truck most nights,” Carey said, voice already going soft. “You’re fine.”

PK laughed. His hand settled on Carey’s hip, warm and heavy, thumb rubbing in circles over the hollow. 

 

Carey roused to the sound of PK rustling around in the bedside table followed by a soft, rasping sound. He listened for a while, unwilling to open his eyes and admit that it was morning, before he indulged his curiosity and turned over to look at PK. 

PK was sitting up in bed, a sketchpad balanced on his bare thighs. He was bent attentively over the paper, but when he glanced over and saw Carey watching him, he smiled sheepishly. 

“Should I not have?” he asked, turning the pad so Carey could see. Carey propped himself up on his elbow and saw that PK had been drawing him. It was nothing like PK’s careless but confident ink sketch from the night before; this was sketchy and unsure, faint impressions of Carey’s closed eyes and mouth, but steady when it came to his nose and chin. “I should have asked. I’ll throw it out if you want.”

“It’s all right,” Carey said. “I’m surprised you want to.”

“You’re beautiful,” PK said, as casually as if he were remarking on the weather. “I appreciate beauty.”

“I’m not,” Carey said, face heating. He reached down to pull the sheets more firmly up to his hips, hiding his legs. “But I don’t mind.”

PK flashed that beaming smile at him, and Carey smiled back instantly, forgetting his self-consciousness. PK leaned down to kiss the side of Carey’s face, between his dimple and mouth, and returned to sketching. Carey watched the movement of PK’s muscles beneath that smooth skin as he drew, erased, wiped away the dust, until he grew drowsy once again and fell back asleep. 

The next time he woke, PK was coming into the room with two mugs in his hands. He was wearing his boxers and a Habs t-shirt that pulled tight across his chest. Carey straightened up, leaning back against the headboard, and asked, “Coffee?”

PK nodded. “I don’t know how you take it, so I left it black.”

“That’s fine.” Carey took one of the mugs from PK and sipped gingerly. “Thank you for this.”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” PK said. “You were pretty soundly asleep.” He sat down at the end of the bed. “Do you have to get back on the road or do you have time?”

“I actually have the next week off,” Carey said. “I was thinking of going home, but I don’t have to right away. Why?”

“Yeah?” PK smiled over the rim of his mug. “I want to paint you.”

Carey swallowed his coffee and set his mug down on the bedside table. “Are you serious?”

“As serious as you want,” PK said, smile turning coy. Carey flushed at the reminder and looked down for a moment. 

“But _why_?” he asked once he thinks he can safely look at PK.

PK shrugged. “You’re worth painting,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “If you want, I can show you my studio and you can decide once you see my work.”

So Carey followed PK down the hall to a room at the southernmost end of the house. It wasn’t a big room, but the huge south-facing bay windows made it seem larger despite the abundance of clutter. The closet was open, revealing shelves of art supplies and piles of canvasses. PK’s easel sat in the middle of the room, facing the wall to the right of the windows. Propped on it was a half-finished painting of a woman with her back turned, long dark hair falling like water across one dusky shoulder. PK picked it up and set it to lean against the wall next to a painting of a frozen-over lake. PK’s style verged on impressionistic, with long brush strokes but bold colors, and Carey wished he had the chance to look closer at the canvasses littering the room. 

“There’s a stool up by the window – yup, that’s it.” Carey dragged the stool forward and perched on the edge, looking to PK questioningly. PK smiled and said, “Sit however you want. I’m gonna grab a canvas.”

Carey rubbed his hand over his leg as PK opened the closet, regretting that he hadn’t taken the time to put on his pants. It was chilly enough that his skin started goosepimpling, even though his palms were sweating. PK sat down at the easel a moment later, a huge canvas in his hands, and he flashed Carey a smile before starting to sketch.

“I have a gallery show in a few months,” PK said. “Down in Toronto. I’m honored, you know? But I have to get all these paintings ready for it.” 

“Are these some of them?” Carey asked, gesturing around before thinking the better of it and tucking his hand back in his lap.

“You don’t have to stay still,” PK said. “And yeah, these are.” He sketched for a few moments, then said, “That’s a nasty scar on your leg.”

Care looked reflexively down, like he didn’t know what PK was talking about. He ran his fingers over its ragged edges. He should have done some of his stretches to work out the tenseness he got after driving for hours, but then he had been – distracted. “Yeah.”

PK looked at him for a moment, expression thoughtful. “This won’t take long,” he said after a moment. “Then we can go get lunch, if you want.”

Carey was content enough to watch PK draw. PK was as fascinating with his brow furrowed in concentration as he was smiling. Carey wondered how many of his lovers PK had sketched; if, indeed, PK had many lovers. He seemed as though he should, as magnetic as he was, and Carey was surprised by the brief surge of envy of everyone who had mapped PK’s skin before him, of anyone who had sat in his place before.

PK wouldn’t let Carey see the canvas after he was done, saying, “It’s just the bones, it hasn’t been dressed yet,” and urged him to go get dressed so they could grab food in town. Carey borrowed one of PK’s shirts to wear under his sweatshirt and followed PK out to the car, hands shoved deep in his pockets and his hood up. He felt conspicuous following PK into the little café-type place he chose, like everyone would know they had spent the night together just by looking at them. PK seemed to have no such fears, blithely greeting the waitress and calling Carey his friend without offering any sort of explanation.. 

“When’s your next rodeo?” PK asked while they were waiting for their food. “Any time soon?”

“I don’t know, not until the spring,” Carey said. “I haven’t – I was going to. I usually do, when I’m home for a long time.”

“How did you even get into that?” PK asked. 

That was – complicated. Carey tried his best to explain how he’d found rodeo after he’d given up hockey, how the rush of it was almost as good as being on the ice. He already had a job with Gio helping out at the stables, and it seemed natural, as quaint and old-fashioned as PK apparently found it. And he loved it. 

“I’d like to see you sometime,” PK said. “I’ve never been to a rodeo before.”

 _I’d win for you_ , Carey wanted to say, but he bit his cheek and swallowed it down. 

When they got back from lunch, Carey kissed PK against the door to his bedroom, slow and steady, and he kissed PK’s neck and palms and his stomach, and they had sex on the floor, PK slowly grinding down against Carey’s dick, mouth slightly agape with his breathless moans. Carey’s back hurt when he stood, and when he showered, he had to direct the warm spray against his thigh to help ease out the tension in his leg, but he thought he could still feel PK’s hands around his wrists. 

PK was in his studio when Carey had showered and dressed, hunched over the canvas. He still wouldn’t let Carey look at it, turning it away from him, but Carey caught a glimpse of bright red paint, and PK’s forearms were smeared with streaks of blue and green. Carey sat back on the stool and tucked his hands in his lap, looking out the window towards the sky, already darkening with winter’s early nightfall. 

“The scar is from when my dad died,” Carey said. In the window, he could see the reflection of PK’s startled look. He barreled on before his grief could overwhelm his tongue. “He used to take me to practice. For a while, he even used to fly me because we lived so far away.”

“Carey –”

“It gets icy in the winter,” Carey said. “And after – there was no chance, anyway, but even if I’d been able, I couldn’t keep playing.”

PK was quiet for a long time, enough that Carey wondered if he should just leave, forget he ever divulged this part of himself to someone he barely knew. But then PK said, “I’m sorry,” and a moment later he was tugging Carey off the stool and into his arms. 

Carey didn’t know what to do with his hands at first. He settled them against the small of PK’s back, tucked his face into PK’s neck. PK smelled of paint, his skin warm, and it occurred to Carey that it had been ages since he had held anyone like this, even his own family. Perhaps longer, even, than the last time he’d slept with someone more than once. 

“I don’t know why I told you that,” Carey confessed into PK’s ear. “I don’t – I never talk about it.” 

“Thank you,” PK said. He stroked the back of Carey’s neck, rubbed his fingers through the short hairs there. “Thank you, Carey.” Later, Carey found faint smears of blue under his ear in the shape of PK’s fingers, and he had to restrain himself from rubbing at them, too afraid to rub them away.

PK drove Carey back to his car a little before seven, kissed him goodbye in the parking lot, and programmed his number into Carey’s phone. “You don’t have to use it,” PK said. “But if you’re ever in town again –” Carey took the phone back and pulled PK back in for another kiss.

“Bye,” Carey said to the corner of PK’s mouth. He couldn’t help thinking this was harder than it should be, and it was that thought that forced him to turn away, get into his truck, and start driving. When he changed a look in his rearview mirror, PK was standing where he’d left him, hands tucked into his pockets and gazing after him. 

Carey turned up his radio, chest tight. Gio was probably wondering why he hadn’t checked in yet; his sister, he suspected, was waiting for his call and ready to yell at him for dropping out of contact for longer than she expected. It could wait, though; he could still taste PK on his lips, and until that had faded away he would hold onto it. 

Carey slept for three days when he returned home and spent the rest of his time off catching up with his sister, who had moved in with her boyfriend, and spending time with his mom. Then he was back on the road, this time up north, to pick up a horse for Gio, and suddenly it was spring, without him ever seeming to have noticed the days passing. He participated in a rodeo in mid-March, winning the group-roping with some guys he’s worked with before, and he put the prize money away, thinking of giving up Blossom and how one day, he wouldn’t have to.

He didn’t think of PK often; perhaps he should have, but he had pushed aside thoughts of him since he had returned home. When he had been with PK, it had been one thing to imagine what it would be like to date someone, to date PK. Once he had left, he knew that it could be months until he was even in PK’s county again, let alone in his town. There was a reason he no longer went home with the people he met on the road. And maybe it was selfish to decide it was for the best, but he doubted PK was waiting by the phone for him. It was better to leave that day they spent together as it was: a perfect memory. So he let PK’s number fester and held the memory of him close, not talking about him to anyone, not even his sister. 

It was a shock, then, to see PK on television while he was at a bar in Saskatchewan, killing time until he had to go sleep for the night. It was a Bruins-Leafs game, and they were interviewing the Bruins goalie, Malcolm Subban, when they showed a picture of PK in a Bulldogs jersey next to him. Carey startled, sitting up straighter and squinting to read the closed captions. 

_\- Yeah, my brother used to be pretty good, but he’s an artist now. He’s got a show right now in Toronto, actually, people should check it out._

_\- Giving him some free advertising?_

_\- He’d disown me if I didn’t._

__The reporter asked Malcolm about the game, then, and the photo of PK disappeared, but Carey was still stared at the television, wondering if he should take it as some sort of sign. He wasn’t a big believer in fate or destiny, and yet he felt like it meant something that Malcolm’s interview had come on while he was sitting in this bar, at this moment.

He had a week off, after this. He had some money saved up. He could go to Toronto, if he wanted. 

 

He took public transportation from home to Toronto, which was almost as bad as if he had driven, and once he was there he crashed at an old friend’s apartment in lieu of finding a hotel. It took some doing to find the gallery where PK was displaying his work, and Carey had to borrow a dress shirt from his friend so he didn’t look completely out of place, but he made it there before closing, slipping in past an older couple into the brightly lit space. 

The art was as varied as Carey might have expected, unified more by style than by content. There was the painting of the woman that Carey recognized from PK’s studio, and the one of the frozen lake, and several that looked like landscapes. The art grew more abstract deeper into the show, brush strokes seemingly less precise but careful nonetheless. Carey took his time, reading the small paragraphs PK had written about each one, and then he came to the last painting and came to an abrupt stop. 

It was the painting of him, though he suspected no one who didn’t know that would recognize it as such. He supposed it would be described as abstract, artful swipes of bold color across the canvas. But he knew the line of his scar, which ran down the center of the painting like a mistake. Those were Carey’s eyes, his shoulder, and that was PK’s blue comforter draped over him, that was PK on the right side of the painting, an indistinct blur dressed in red. 

There was no descriptive text, no price, and it was titled only _Morning_. Carey stared at it for a long time, at the loose brush strokes that described his cheek and hair. In the painting, he was just waking up, he thought, eyes open but still lying in bed. He looked almost ephemeral, like he might disappear at any moment. 

“This is the most popular painting here,” said a voice to his right. Carey jumped and turned to see a tall white woman in a suit. She wore a nametag proclaiming her to be Veronica. “But he won’t sell it, so if you’re thinking of that –”

“No,” Carey got out. “I’m not – is he here?”

“I’m afraid he left for today,” Veronica said. “He’ll be back tomorrow if you wanted to speak with him.”

“What time?” Carey asked. 

“Around ten a.m. is when he usually arrives.” Veronica eyed him. “May I ask why you want to speak with him, if you aren’t looking to buy this one?”

“I’m an – art enthusiast,” Carey said. “I won’t bother him if he doesn’t want me to talk to him.” 

Nevertheless, he returned the next day, promptly at nine when the gallery opened and stayed, and stayed, and stayed until it was past noon and his feet were aching and he was ready to quit and get lunch. For all he had been sure of destiny in that ragged bar in Saskatchewan, he recalled now that it was never anything he believed in before. He turned from the painting of him and started for the exit, head down. He was nearly at the door when he heard his name.

PK was standing by a door that read _Employees Only_. He wore a three-piece suit of deep plum, shiny black shoes, and a thunderstruck expression. Carey shoved his hands into his pockets and tried a smile. 

“Hey,” he said.

“Jesus,” PK said. “That’s – _Carey_ ,” and he was crossing the space between them with complete disregard for everyone else in the gallery, some of whom would probably even buy the paintings. Carey’s breath caught as PK seized him up into that tight hug he remembered, PK’s hands no doubt wrinkling Carey’s borrowed shirt. Carey hesitantly wrapped his arms around PK’s waist, and held on until PK let go of him. 

PK cupped Carey’s face in his hands and said, “Shit. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“I’m sorry I never – I had your number,” Carey started, not knowing what to say. 

“It’s okay,” PK said. “It was one day. I didn’t expect – I’m just glad you’re here now.” His thumb rubbed into Carey’s dimple, and Carey realized he was smiling. “Did you see the painting?”

“They said you weren’t selling it,” Carey said. 

“I’ve had offers,” PK said. He dropped his hands to his sides. “Did you want to buy it?”

“No,” Carey said. “You should keep it.” He paused. “How much have people offered?”

“You don’t want to know that,” PK said. “How long are you in town for?”

“I have a week off,” Carey said. “But – I could take off more.”

PK started to lean in, then paused and said, “Sorry, is this all right?” and Carey kissed him before PK could start to question himself. It was as sweet as Carey remembered, as soul-shakingly loving. PK beamed when they parted. 

“I thought about that a lot when I was working on that painting,” he said. “The real thing’s better.”

Carey’s face heated. “I’m glad,” he said, dry. 

PK laughed and patted Carey’s face. “I’m gonna go talk to the gallery owner for a minute, but then I’m all yours.” 

Carey watched and waited, foot tapping against the floor like he was an anxious colt, until PK had returned and taken his hand. 

“A week, huh?” PK said. “I can do a lot with a week.”

“It doesn’t have to be a week,” Carey found himself saying. “I’ve earned myself more, if I have reason to ask for it.”

“Oh yeah?” PK smiled. “I have a hotel room, paid for by the gallery.” He looked Carey up and down, that same frank assessment Carey remembered from the last time they’d been together. “I could bring my rough trade in, scandalize the concierge.”

” _Rough trade_ ,” Carey said in disbelief. PK started laughing. “I’m wearing a nice shirt!”

“Not for long,” PK promised, and he took Carey’s hand to lead him from the gallery.


End file.
